Bill leapt out of the shrubbery, pouncing onto his quarry like a bloodthirsty wolf. “Stop fuckin’ squirmin’, ya little shit!”

He wrestled the thing into the long grass, snarling and spitting. “Finish it, quickly!” shouted Alric from a distance. His side was bandaged so heavily that he could barely move, forcing Bill to be the one to seize their prey. The pain was sharp and cold. He was desperate for it to end.

Peter, the self-proclaimed former heretic, was at Alric's side. “You’ll have me believe that this...thing we’re hunting will aid your recovery?”

Bill thuggishly pushed to his feet with a dinner plate-sized creature in his hands. It buzzed loudly, jerking back and forth in desperation. It was a spindly little thing with four sets of rapidly gyrating wings. It had a single eye on its thin frame. “This ain’t a fuckin’ faerie, it’s a demented little cunt...!” snarled Bill through his teeth.

“Do as I say! Before it escapes!”

Bill thinned his lips, clutched the faerie firmly and wrenched. With a ‘snap’, the creature’s wings stopped whirling about. Faint sounds still emanated from it, however. Peter hobbled forth. “Is it...dead?”

“Nay, only crippled. Bring it to me,” commanded Alric as he set himself down onto a tree stump. As Bill approached, very obviously repulsed by the paralysed faerie, Alric drew his rondel dagger. Bill passed the beast to Alric who then pressed his dagger against a specific point on the faerie’s spine. Without any indication of pain from the small creature, a shimmering liquid secreted from the puncture point. “Peter, the skin,” said Alric.

Instantly, Peter carefully held his empty waterskin beneath the faerie. Slowly but surely, it began to fill with the strange substance. Bill watched in disgust with his hands planted on his hips. “Fuck me.”

With a roll of his eyes, Alric said, “Faerie tears are incredibly potent healing solutions. Ye best remember that.” With the faerie fully drained, Peter's waterskin was filled with its tears. Alric tossed the faerie's carcass over his shoulder and gestured for the flask. “Simply apply the tears to the afflicted area. It will seep through clothing with ease.”

“That’s all?” pressed Peter as he handed it over. Alric poured some of the liquid onto the tips of his fingers and rubbed it into his bandages.

Bill cocked his head. “That's fuckin’ gross, mate. Fuckin’ Hell,” he spat. “Are we done ‘ere or what?”

As the trio lumbered back through the forest, Alric could already feel the concoction navigating his veins. It had a signature sting to it. Painful, but satisfying. In his mind, it was an indication that it was working.

Lord Franco and the majority of his host were travelling back to his keep at Redford after Baron Antony had dispatched his own men to occupy Chesterton. Alric and Peter were accompanying them for the time being, not entirely sure what they were to do next. Bill led the way, naturally moving faster than his two companions.

“From whence didst thou come, Peter?” asked Alric.

Peter’s limp was rhythmic as he kept pace with the knight. “I worked as a scribe in Blackmeadow.” Alric swallowed at the mention of that particular city. After a few seconds of silence, Peter tried to change the subject. “I am not certain where we should go next. The heretic trail seemed to end at Chesterton.”

“I shall return with thee to Blackmeadow.”

Peter shook his head. “No. The deeds of the heretics upon my departure were…nothing short of cruel. I cannot return.”

“They shall be made to see the truth. My blessing shall make certain of it,” Alric lied.

Peter exhaled sharply and nodded half-heartedly.

The mining village of Worthing Hill was accommodating Franco’s travelling retinue. They had tents erected at the outskirts of the village and, quite frankly, brought a dark cloud with them to the settlement. Bill had been speaking with his fellow soldiers and ascertained that morale was not serviced by the orders given to slay the indoctrinated children at Chesterton. The troops had been fractured. As the men left the woods and mounted the main dirt road into Worthing Hill, glares of mixed intent met Alric's form. Although he was not dressed in armour, he still wore his Thestor surcoat over his clothes. “Allow me a moment with Lord Franco,” requested the knight of his comrades.

Bill and Peter broke off, allowing Alric to enter the tavern. The place was loaded to the brim with patrons, all of them soldiers under Franco's command. Despite the number of people inside, Alric could hear his own blood coursing through his body. The only discussions took place in the form of faint whispers. Franco sat alone at the bar counter, until he found himself approached by Alric. The lord glanced up at the Thestor’s face with confusion lathered about his expression. “Art thou lost, Thestor?”

Alric pulled a chair out with a strained grunt and propped himself upon it, prompting the lord to grind his teeth and turn away. “I trust that the remains of the eldritch artefacts were properly disposed of?” He had snapped the staves in twain himself, but burning them would ensure that they would be of no use to any other witches.

Franco did not meet eyes with Alric. “They were.”

“Is something the matter, Lord Franco?”

It seemed that Alric’s inability to read the situation only infuriated Franco more. “Thou art a disgusting and foul human being. Art thou aware of that?” he exploded as he shot upright. “My men had to dig a shallow grave for eighteen children because of thee.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Alric chuckled to himself. “If thou hast issue with the Church, then simply confess it, my lord.”

“I am not afraid of thee, Alric. I know thy kind well. Thou art not righteous. Thou do not serve God. He is but an excuse for that twisted, horrible mind of thine to satisfy its deepest urges.” Other men in the room gasped in shock. Franco literally spat at Alric’s feet. “Begone.”

The infantrymen who were close enough to hear started shifting uncomfortably in their seats. One of them stood from his table. “You sacrilegious piece of shit!”

Another voice cried out, “Sit tha fuck down, mate!”

One by one, more and more voices piled on top of one another until there was nothing but cacophony. In his earlier years, Alric may have tried to calm the masses with some kind of inspirational speech. The truth was that he was tired. Tired of trying to reason with people who could not see the light. It was easier to simply strike them down. Amidst the shouting and even trading of blows, Alric pushed to his feet and exited the tavern. Some soldiers actually managed to shield Alric from attacks meant for him. It reconstituted a fraction of his faith in the Tritan people to see that some of them still knew right from wrong.

When the brawl’s noise was but a whisper on the wind, Alric took a deep breath and looked into the sky. The demonists were organised…they not only created and manned defences around Chesterton, but they had black magic at their fingertips. Alric couldn’t help but wonder how large their enterprise was. Was all that had occurred prelude to holy war? Never had demonists or heretics come together to form an army before, as small as it was. He realised that such questions were not befitting his position. He would best let the grandmaster of the Order of Saint Thestus and leadership of the Church dabble in those uncertainties. The one thing he did know was that the demonists had to be punished for corrupting helpless children.

With the small amount of money that Alric had left, he was able to pay for space in a bed for both he and Peter in the local inn. They would do much better than the tents in the Tritan encampment. Alric had no desire to spend another second reliving his time fighting abroad by sleeping in the dirt. He strode toward the inn, clutching his side. It still stung with fierce intensity; it would take time for the faerie tears to take effect, much to the knight’s chagrin.

The inn was a very clean and cosy establishment. Alric was pleased for Nocht to have a comfortable night in a stable with good food for once. When he entered the common area, he saw Peter seated at a desk fiddling with rolls of parchment that he had removed from his shoulder bag. Also sitting on the surface of the table were an inkhorn and pen knife. The quill was in Peter’s hand, briskly dancing across the parchment. Alric leant over the scribe and peered at his writings.

“I am detailing the heretic faith. What they would lead us to believe.”

“It is vital that the Church possesses a complete understanding of the demonists and their twisted beliefs. Send it to the Archbishop immediately; he must be made aware of this affront.”

With a shake of his head, Peter continued, “It is not complicated, Brother Alric. The core teaching is that we are not truly alive. What we call the undead? The heretics believe that is our natural state. The cause is simple; everyone, no matter their faith or their people, must be killed then resurrected. Everyone.”

----

The halls of the defaced cathedral were strewn with paintings made with human blood and the savaged carcasses of priests, nuns, and Knights Thestor. Hundreds of followers had gathered there. Among them was one who did not belong; a non-believer seeking answers of another sort. Halsten finally felt that his son was within his reach. It wasn’t a journey he made lightly. No man, no matter how conflicted he was with his faith, wanted to spill blood within a church. Desperation, however, is fuel enough to turn men to things that once horrified them. He just wanted it to be over. To go back to Oak with his son by his side. His eyes leapt from person to person. Face to face. However, before his sight spread too far, a raspy, hollow drawl echoed through the hall.

“We all have congregated here to declare in one voice; let the Church’s lies bind us no more, for we have seen the truth.”

His ears were bewitched by the low, deep resonance of her voice and his attention gravitated toward the visage of a woman dressed as if she were a savage. Three wolf skulls had been tied together with cords of sinew over her face, their blackened eye sockets amplifying the intense glow of her putrid yellow eyes. She wore a short shoulder cape on her left side made of sewn together patches of some otherworldly fibre, footwraps adorned with the bones of a human foot, vambraces and gloves lined with human teeth, a necklace made of vertebrae wrapped tightly around her neck, and not a shred of anything else. That’s when his heart stopped dead. She had no skin. It had been cut off… Every inch of it. “M-Mother of God…” he muttered. Her maimed body was covered in writing…writing that had been carved into both flesh and bone. Thousands of words were etched upon her; she was a walking tome. The sight made Halsten feel sick.

“The Church turns their gaze to the sky. They look in the wrong direction. I have seen sprawling metropolises built beneath the very earth itself, filled with all manner of demonic arcana. The truth is that we ourselves are demonic arcana left behind by our infernal creators. In the time since, our minds have been clouded and we have lost our way.”

Halsten continued his search discreetly, scouring the sea of faces before him. However, his heart froze when his eyes met with those of a mysterious figure tucked away in shadow behind the demonist zealot. A woman, but unlike any Halsten had ever seen. Not only was her skin snow white, her face… Her features were smooth. Her nose was sharp. Her eyes were black. They had an infinite depth to them. She wore an exquisitely embroidered gown that was the blackest of blacks, amplifying the stark tone of her skin.

Hey, poser. You're not one of us. Fairly obvious if you ask me. I can pretty much smell it on you.

The woodsman twitched. It was a voice...inside his mind. A smooth tone, intimate and tender. The strange words and phrases it used were beyond Halsten’s understanding. Its accent was equally bizarre. As the mysterious woman smirked, Halsten felt his mind drain. His purpose slipped away. His thoughts...his memories...his son’s face...they spiralled out of his grip. As those things departed, something else slipped inside.

You’ve come looking for your kid, right? Interesting. Maybe I’ll make it happen. It’ll be fun.

The zealot continued her ranting. “Every thought, every emotion, every sensation is but an illusion. A grand deception. The reality is that we were forged to serve as immortal, immovable vassals of our true creators. We must return to our old ways; to feel no pain, no remorse. To feel nothing.”

Come on, you believe this stuff, right? Mother Xalt’n knows what she’s talking about. She’s a little freaky, but come on. I mean, forget about being the person who wrote the book on something. She IS the book. Am I right?

Halsten's lips quivered. He muttered to himself, “N-No. This is all garbage…!”

The zealot, who Halsten somehow knew to be Mother Xalt’n, raised her hands. “It is clear. The Enlightenment at Chesterton was much too small; in order to succeed we must spread our faith to those who are able to see the light. We, the Clthic Synod, shall usher humanity back into oblivion; the True State.” Roars of approval filled the chamber. And much to Halsten's confusion, his voice was among them.

Tough crowd. Anyway, I’m telling you what to do. Follow her. Follow her and do whatever she says. And maybe…just maybe…you’ll run into Erik again.